The Secret of Wildcat Swamp (11 page)

The orange-and-red light of a small campfire flickered through a thick grove of trees.

“Should we take time to see who's there?” Joe asked. “After all, we're late now. That campfire may belong to a gang of hobos.”

“On the other hand,” Frank reasoned, “Dad might be there.”

Frank's argument convinced his brother, and the two boys left the right-of-way.

Careful not to make any noise, the Hardys advanced among the trees. At the far edge of the grove in which the fire was located they paused in the underbrush and peered ahead.

A dozen men were huddled around the fire. Two were eating. The others appeared to have finished their meal and were warming themselves near the blaze.

In the low buzz of conversation someone occasionally would make a wisecrack that provoked a chorus of rough laughter. Presently a deep voice which was raised above the rest gave the Hardys a chance to learn the subject of the men's conversation.

“Well, the boss and his new friend'll be here soon,” the man rumbled. “Then the fireworks'll start!”

“We can't wait for them much longer,” another voice announced impatiently. “Number 68's due here in a little while.”

“These men must be train robbers!” Frank whispered. “They're waiting to wreck Number 68 on the tracks right over there!”

“Then maybe we're not too late,” Joe said hopefully. “Dad's probably around here somewhere. Let's get closer to these guys. Maybe we can hear exactly what they're up to.”

The boys had crawled forward several feet when Frank gripped his brother's arm, pulling him to a stop. With his other hand cupped around Joe's ear, he whispered:

“It just occurred to me—that fellow mentioned the boss and his new friend. Do you think he could have meant Flint and Turk?”

Edging forward on their knees and elbows, the boys tried to get a better look at the faces of the men in the flickering firelight. One of them, his back to the Hardys, addressed the others.

“Can ya imagine a coupla high school kids holdin' up a deal like this. Well, we don't have to worry about them any longer. Flint said he'd take care of 'em before he got here.”

Flint! The boys' deduction had been correct!

“At least,” Frank told himself elatedly, “we're on the right track now.”

“Me, I'm gettin' tired of waitin',” one of the men grumbled. “The sooner we get at this job, the better. I want to put the grab on those pipes and drills and then blow outta here.”

“Sure, Hank,” another agreed. “The sooner we get hold of that stuff, the quicker we can set up the diggin'.”

“Flint said Number 68's got three cars loaded with the last word in oil rigs,” Hank went on. “We'll be rollin' in dough in a few weeks, and by that time it'll all be on the level.”

Joe prodded Frank and the older boy knew what he was thinking. The stolen rig was to be set up in Wildcat Swamp after the land had been taken from Mrs. Sanderson!

“No wonder those phony rangers invented that government order for everyone to move out,” Frank whispered.

Joe was about to speak when a sudden crackling in the woods startled him.

“Too late to run!” Frank whispered. “Lie flat!”

Face down in the undergrowth, they hugged the dry ground. The sound of heavy footsteps grew nearer. The newcomers passed the boys and approached the campfire. Conversation died abruptly. Frank and Joe looked up momentarily, to see one of the men jump up, draw his pistol, and hurry away.

“Who's there?” he called, advancing to only a few feet from where the boys lay hidden.

Frank and Joe hardly dared to breathe until the challenger's attention was diverted by the two new arrivals who stepped into the firelight.

“What's the matter with you, Sam? Jumpy tonight?” one of them asked in a low, controlled voice. Better dressed than any of the others, he presented an almost distinguished appearance.

The man with him was big and broad-shoul dered. Even from where the Hardys lay squinting through the brush, they could see him frowning darkly at the others who now clustered around.

Now Frank and Joe were absolutely sure. The men were indeed the Green Sand prisoners—now without their cowboy disguise and masks!

The boys listened tensely.

“Okay, Flint,” replied Sam, ramming his pistol back into its holster. “It's this waiting that gets on my nerves.” Then, turning to the others, he added, “Meet your boss, men.”

Flint was received enthusiastically. All the gang were eager to get their new job under way and the arrival of the boss meant time for action.

Leading his companion into the center of the group, Flint said, “Men, I want all of you to meet an old pal of mine—Jesse Turk. He's going to be in on this caper with us.”

“That's okay by me,” Hank said approvingly. “There's gonna be enough dough for everybody.”

“Right!” Flint added. “This job is a lead-pipe cinch. We had a little trouble getting rid of those Hardys. And then that fool fossil hunter.”

“What happened to him?” Hank asked.

“He and the fat kid with him are tied up and hidden away in a cave—without food and water.”

Involuntarily, the Hardys winced at the reference to their friends' plight. Joe, in sudden anger, started to scramble to his knees, but Frank laid a firm hand on his arm.

“Take it easy, Joe. We can help Cap and Chet more by learning all we can here.”

Though Frank had restrained him quickly, Joe's sudden movement had been heard. A tall, hard-bitten member of the gang sprang to his feet.

“Boss, what was that over there? I swear I heard something move.”

There was an ominous silence as the others listened, too. The wind had died down and not a leaf stirred. Suddenly the still night rang with a rasping laugh. It came from Turk, and his harsh amusement echoed through the woods. The rest stared at him.

“Flint, I thought you said you had men here!” he said bitingly. “These guys are nothing but a bunch of scared rabbits!”

There was an immediate and angry muttering among the group of outlaws. Before it could develop into a fight, Flint stepped forward.

“All right, knock it off,” he ordered briskly. “You guys have nothing to worry about. Those snooping Hardy kids have frozen to death in a refrigerator car, and their old man is next.”

“You got him too?” Hank smirked.

“No, but we heard where he is. This job'll be a cinch now.”

His authoritative demeanor having eased the tension, Flint drew Turk and Hank aside in a private conversation, while the others began talking of the robbery plans. Taking advantage of the general chatter, Frank nudged Joe.

“Back out of here,” he proposed in a whisper.

Joe nodded and began inching his way backward through the brush. They had to get away—had to get to Spur Gulch, find their father, and warn him.

They had moved about half the distance to the edge of the grove when they heard Flint giving more orders.

“Enough talk, men! Time to get moving. We've got a job to do before we can pull the holdup.”

To the boys' horror, the men picked up flashlights and began to tramp through the trees right in their direction.

“They'll spot us this time,” Joe groaned. “How are we going to hide from all of them?”

Frank's quick mind hit upon an idea. “Hurry! Up a tree!”

Rapidly, before the beams of the flashlights could reach them, he and Joe picked out two sturdy pine trees with low-hanging branches and shinned up into their thick foliage.

Seconds later the men pushed past beneath them and moved out of earshot.

“That was close,” Joe muttered as they climbed down. “Now what?”

“It's better this way,” Frank told him. “Now we can trail them.”

The boys followed the gang, keeping well concealed. It was hard going without lights in the dark woods, and their pace was slow compared to the men's.

Finally they saw the gang break out of the woods near the summit of the hill on which the boys had jumped off the freight car. Beyond, the roadbed curved and descended in a long horseshoe.

“Let's go over there and watch,” Frank said, pointing to a cluster of tall bushes down the tracks from where the men had emerged.

Halfway around the curve of the tracks, the outlaws disappeared into the trees again. A moment later, when Joe was about to start after them, they reappeared, their flashlights bobbing as if they were carrying something.

“What have they got there?” Joe whispered.

“Looks to me like old railroad ties,” Frank answered. “But what on earth—?”

His unfinished query was answered immediately as the men heaved the great chunks of wood onto the tracks and set them afire.

A bright flame licked at the tinder-dry wood, and in no time it had grown into a crackling blaze.

“Frank, we must warn the engineer!” Joe cried.

The boys started in the direction the freight would be coming.

But at that moment Flint stepped into their path and shouted:

“It's burning fine, men. Here comes that rattler. To your jobs!”

Splitting into small groups, his henchmen disappeared into the night. Flint hurried off down the tracks toward the freight.

“Now's our chance,” Joe said. “We may be caught, but we ought to make a try.”

“We'll certainly be caught if we go that way,” Frank objected. “Let's see if we can push those burning logs away so the train won't have to stop.”

DASHING uphill as fast as their legs would carry them, the Hardys sped toward the pile of burning ties. Reaching the spot, they found the center a roaring blaze, the heat intense.

Nevertheless, the two boys tugged frantically at the end of one of the heavy ties. At first it would not budge, and the Hardys' faces were scorched before they managed to drag the heavy piece of wood away from the pyre. Its removal caused the others to collapse, sending sparks in every direction.

“It's no use!” Frank panted, beating off the sparks that singed his shirt. “We couldn't clear this away in time.”

Their faces and arms smarting, and their eyes bloodshot, they were forced to move back.

“We'll have to try the other plan,” Joe urged. “Come on!”

Frank was dubious of its success, but he fol lowed Joe. They hurried forward, jumping from tie to tie.

“I hope none of that gang's watching,” Frank said. “If they see us, it's curtains.”

Aided by the downgrade, the boys put a quarter mile between them and the fire before they saw the bright beam of the freight train's headlight. As the long train bore down on them with a roar, the Hardys took a determined stance in the middle of the track, waving their arms furiously. A second later the hoarse, warning honk of the Diesel's horn split the night with staccato blasts.

Still the boys held their position. The Diesel's air brakes suddenly were jammed on with a shriek, and the heavy freight ground to a stop. As the Hardys rushed toward the locomotive, the engineer leaned from the window.

“Are you kids crazy?” he bellowed. “You could have been killed! What's the idea?”

“There's danger ahead!” Joe blurted.

“Train robbers!” Frank added.

In a space of a few seconds, the Hardys impressed upon the engineer the necessity for speedy action. Turning, the man seized the induction telephone to the caboose, and frantically tried again and again to contact the men there.

“This is dead!” he cried. “There's no answer!”

Just then, from the other side of the big locomotive, came a rough command:

“Drop that phone and put up your hands!”

The engineer's eyes widened in panic. Letting the instrument fall to the floor, he raised his hands, at the same time trying to nod to the boys to warn them.

There was nothing for Frank and Joe to do but to slip quietly into the brush along the tracks. From this cover, they peered up into the cab.

Two masked men were climbing into the compartment from the other side of the train, holding at gunpoint both the engineer and his fireman. Up the track, other members of the gang were using long hooks to remove the smoldering, red-hot ties.

“If we cut through the woods, we can warn the crew in the caboose ourselves!” Frank urged.

Stumbling blindly through the darkness on the inside of the horseshoe curve, the boys made their way toward the end of the long freight. They tripped over fallen logs, and whiplike branches cut their faces.

“There are the lights of the caboose,” Frank gasped. “Keep going!”

Guided by the lights, they broke out of the woods and clambered up a short slope. Joe grabbed for the railing and scrambled up the iron steps. Frank was right behind him. They had barely reached the platform on the tail end of the car when the train gave a lurch.

“We're moving!” Joe yelled.

The next instant a voice, which was strangely familiar, shouted: “Jump!”

The command carried so much authority that the boys obeyed instinctively. Leaping backward, they somersaulted down the cinder-packed embankment. Unhurt, they sprang quickly to their feet.

“The end of the train has broken loose!” Joe shouted.

The caboose and three big flatcars adjoining it had cut free and were rolling downgrade. The rest of the freight had started pulling ahead.

While the front section was slowly picking up speed, the four end cars were gathering momentum every second as they took the downhill curve.